


Dragon Hats

by replicasex



Series: Hat AUs [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, M/M, Mage Trott, Templar Smith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-26 09:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14998295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/replicasex/pseuds/replicasex
Summary: In the town of Lothering the Templar Knight-Lieutenant Smith and his husband must escape the marching horde of Darkspawn.  They meet a man whose powers test every oath a Templar can make.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  
> In their blood the Maker's will is written.
> 
> -Benedictions 4:11, Chant of Light

There was never enough time. The Templar order had been tasked with the evacuation of Lothering by default - no one else was equal to the task. It was a responsibility that garnered them no favors and even fewer thanks. 

This, Knight-Lieutenant Smith knew, was no failing. With a horde of monstrous Darkspawn on their way, it was too much to expect gratitude. He cared only for his service to the Order, his husband, and managing to get out of Lothering alive. 

One of the younger Templars, barely out of their vigil, stormed into the Chantry, heading straight for Smith. Suppressing a groan, Smith turned to the young man. He looked exhausted and was sweating in his armor.

"Knight-Lieutenant sir," he said as he gulped down air. "Sir, the scouts have returned!" 

Smith's eyes tracked, for a moment, the familiar line of his husband's back. Judging by the young Templar's face, this would be terrible news. 

"Sir!" The Templar gasped again. "The scouts say the Darkspawn are nearly upon us! A half day's march at most!” 

It was what Smith had been waiting days for. Dread settled into his stomach, heavier than any draft of lyrium. And yet there was a kind of relief, too. Finally, there was something to do.

"Calm yourself, lad. We knew this was coming. You did your duty, coming to tell me. The Knight-Commander will be doing this for us all shortly but for now: I'm ordering you to make all due haste out of Lothering. Attempt to make contact with the Order stationed at Kinloch Hold but take any reasonable action to protect yourself."

The young man nearly keeled over with relief. Smith put his hand on the boy's shoulder. 

"Maker watch over you." He said.

"May He watch over us all." The boy said fervently, and left as quickly as his heavy armor would allow.

Smith's duty was clear now. He would tell the Knight Commander and the Chantry Mother and they would set out immediately. The rest of the Order would scatter to the wind.   
Before, though, he would find his husband. His husband was a gentle soul and talented with herbs. He had been making poultices for the infirm and helping load them into the last wagons.   
Smith could not sneak in his armor so Ross met him halfway through his search. 

"Come with me," Smith said, laying a firm hand to the small of Ross' back, leading him to a private alcove. 

"That conversation must have been serious," Ross said quietly. 

"It was. The scouts are back. The Darkspawn will be here before nightfall." Smith said. 

Ross' eyes widened and looked back towards the injured laying inbetween the pews of the Chantry. 

"Ross," Smith said, jostling him slightly. "You need to ready the horses. We both have our satchels ready to go. All we need now is to saddle our horses." 

Ross opened his mouth to object but Smith cut across him. 

"No. There's no time for your soft heart today. Once I've told the Knight Commander, my duty is done. The Order will leave the town to its fate."

Ross' brow furrowed. 

"You swore an oath to serve the Order, to serve the Maker." Ross said quietly. "How can it be the Maker's will we leave these people to their fate?"

Smith was silent for a long moment before removing both of his gauntlets. He let them fall to the floor with a heavy clang. He took Ross' warm hands in his own and raised them to his mouth to kiss. 

"I swore an oath to you, too." Smith said. "To love and protect” He kisses Ross’ hand again. "Now go and see to the horses. I'll be right behind you."

Ross looks again at the injured, and at his husband. He turns and walks through the arched entrance of the Chantry. Towards the stables. 

Sighing in relief, Knight-Lieutenant Smith moves towards the Knight-Commander, carrying a message of terror.


	2. Chapter 2

It took no time at all for the scouts’ news to spread through the town.  Smith had told the Knight-Commander and the Chantry Mother and they had, as Smith expected, began their evacuation.  The Templars that remained had been called to the Chantry and the Knight-Commander had released them from their duty.  Most left immediately but a few of the older Templars, weary and half addled from long years of lyrium abuse, vowed to hold the Chantry doors against the ‘spawn and protect those too injured to be moved. 

Smith found himself darkly amused.  These Templars, he knew, were driven more by the hope of ending the burning need for lyrium than any noble purpose.  If that made him self-righteous, then so be it:  he was a righteous man.  Those of the Order who fell today would be remembered as martyrs, whatever their motives. 

He wondered briefly if he should leave his heavy plate armor in the Chantry, but he thought better of it.  The road would be treacherous even with a head start.  There was every reason to think they might meet stragglers at the vanguard of the horde.  Not to mention every other kind of bandit or thief they might encounter.  The holy symbol emblazoned on his chestpiece would serve to protect as much as the armor beneath it. 

Smith gathered his heavy satchel and headed towards the stables and his husband.  He was relieved to see him standing outside the stables, brushing the two mares that would be their escape.  Smith could hear the low lilting song Ross sang to horses when no one was near to overhear him.  He had a gentle touch and the two horses were obedient to his command.  It brought a smile to Smith’s lips, even in the midst of crisis. 

“Ross,” Smith called as he approached him.  Ross looked up and nodded to him.  The horses were lightly saddled and carried only the most essential items.  They had no time for sentimentality.  “We must depart,” Smith said.  His husband helped him sit astride his horse and then sat himself on his own. 

“Lead on,” Ross said and together they rode East towards Denerim. 

*

They were five days out from Lothering when they met their first sign of trouble.  They had swiftly overtaken a dozen or so stragglers from Lothering; the fine horses of a Knight-Templar’s station served them better than any workaday pony.  Ross had gotten off his horse for the first two, to check their wounds.  Smith had had to speak harshly to him and his husband was currently sporting a glare so hot it might rival Andraste’s pyre.  He didn’t mind, though.  Better he be cross than dead. 

They had slept as little as they could manage, stopping more often for the horses than themselves.  On the fifth night, Smith knew they had to make a proper camp and eat and rest themselves and the horses or they would be useless. 

“Where do you think we should make camp?” Smith asked, deferring to his husband’s woodscraft.  Many people mistook Ross’ quiet nature for timidity or submissiveness but the truth was that he had grown up in the wilds and was shy of people.  Even now, Smith sometimes startled him with a touch or made him shy away with a shout.  He had hated the noisy Templar barracks fiercely, before he had convinced his superiors to allow him to marry. 

Ross looked the area over with a professional eye.  After a moment, he pointed to a small copse of trees. 

“We can make good enough shelter there, at least for a night.” Ross said.  He was still chilly and his posture was stiff, angled away from Smith.  Sighing, Smith dismounted and led their horses to the little hollow.  They would see to the horses first, and then themselves.  Ross pointed his nose to the air and sniffed a few times.

“There should be a creek nearby.  We can refill our skins and water the horses.”  Ross said.  Smith just nodded as he was brushing down their horses’ coats.  He was a city boy, raised on the streets of Denerim.  He knew how to make a fire and a few basic skills but his husband had lived half his life like this. 

If their moods were better, Smith might take Ross in his arms and kiss him, mouthing over his ears, telling him he must be a Dalish elf.  He had done it the first time they had to camp, shortly before their wedding.  Ross had been half drunk and had dissolved into a fit of giggles.  The memory made him smile, despite Ross’ current chill. 

They settled in and made camp without much fuss or conversation.  Smith had been prepared for another night of separate bed rolls but Ross had placed his next to his own.  He was already undoing the seams of their rolls to join them together.  They would be warmer together anyway, lying on the cold Ferelden countryside. 

By nightfall they had a slow burning fire and were bundled up beside it.  Smith had argued for keeping a watch but Ross had pointed out that the both of them were too exhausted for such vigilance.  And besides, if the Darkspawn came upon them, they would simply die. 

“I missed you today,” Smith said when they had settled in their bed rolls.  Ross sighed.  “I know you think I was cruel before, that I spoke harshly to you.  Love, every second of this journey matters.  If we stopped to help every refugee we came across we would only condemn ourselves as well.” 

“They were hurt,” Ross said after a moment.  “Most of them I couldn’t help, but I might have saved some of their lives.  I know what you think, that I’m soft hearted, and maybe I am.  But I don’t know any other way to be.  If I can help someone, I will.” 

Smith cupped Ross’ face and rubbed his thumb across his cheek. 

“I know love, that’s who you are.  You’re so full of the Maker’s light I think it might burst out of you.”  Smith said.  Ross closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

His husband was not a conspicuous Andrastian but was devout in his own way.  It was the first thing Smith really noticed about him, before their courtship.  Smith felt his faith to the Maker as a fire, like the fiery sword emblazoned on his armor.  He thought it might burn his heart too, one day.  But Ross’ devotion was as cool and ubiquitous as the green grass they laid on.  It was in every act he took, every word.  At least, this was Smith’s opinion. 

They kissed gently, the anger of the previous days melting away.  Eventually, they slept. 

*

Before morning’s light, they awoke to the sound of Darkspawn horns. 


	3. Chapter 3

When Smith woke, his sword was already in his hand.  He had laid his sword and shield beside their bed rolls and was now fiercely glad of his decision.  He had awoken in a crouch, sword already in hand, and as he blinked sleep out of his eyes he reached down to grasp his shield as well.  Ross too was awake, though still half trapped in his bed roll. 

“Darkspawn?” Ross asked, voice high with fear. 

“They’re close,” Smith said, turning to him.  “Get your bow and quiver and find a tree to climb.” Smith could already hear beating drums, even the sound of the spawn trampling and destroying the forest.  They would be upon them in minutes.  Ross opened his mouth to argue.

“NOW!” Smith roared.  “I can’t fight them if I have worry about your position.  Pick them off and we’ll make a break when we’ve thinned them out.”  Ross swallowed hard and then nodded.  He had a particular skill with climbing trees and Smith knew he would be high in the boughs before the darkspawn arrived.  Smith hurriedly grabbed his armor and put it on.  A Templar’s armor could take ten minutes for an experienced Knight to don.  Smith cobbled his together in three. 

The sounds were loudest to the east.  He could already see lumbering, malformed shapes of the darkspawn in the distance.  He set himself between the eastern tree line and the tree Ross had climbed.  His sword arm was relaxed and his shield, emblazoned with holy symbol of Andraste, was a comforting weight.  He was as ready as he could be.  But first, before the end, there was something yet to pray for.

“Though all before me is shadow,” Smith said, voice distant from himself.  “Yet shall the maker be my guide.”  He could hear his husband echo the words above him and he gripped his sword more tightly. 

“I will not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.”  They spoke as one. 

The darkspawn had made it through the trees.  They were uglier and more horrifying than even Smith had expected.  They would notice them soon. 

“For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light.”

Smith would die first, he knew.  His mouth twisted, suddenly, and he felt a fierce stab of relief that he would not have to watch Ross die.  He would make them kill him first. 

“And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

 The darkspawn roared, as if affronted by the prayer they had offered.  Smith beat his sword’s pommel against his shield in defiance. 

And the darkspawn charged. 

*

The first three monsters were felled by Ross’ arrows before they ever made it to Smith but the fourth arrow missed its target and glanced off the spawn’s armor.  Smith held his shield high and absorbed its first blow.  Templars were trained to move quickly even under the heavy weight of armor and weapons.  With a quick stab Smith cut into the darkspawn’s torso and downed it with a blow from his shield. 

He glanced up after he was sure the ‘spawn was dead and his heart dropped into his stomach.  Another six darkspawn had appeared through the tree line, one of them carrying a wicked looking crossbow.  The hurlocks were already charging at him. 

“Target the archer!” Smith yelled up to Ross, praying he would hear him.  He braced himself for the onslaught.  The ‘spawn had no sense of tactics and little skill, but even he could not take five at once.  He would’ve run if he could, to make their numbers more manageable in the chase. 

But he could not leave Ross.  His husband had already taken down the archer but he would never survive if the hurlocks decided to climb.  His sword arm felt loose and deadly and he vowed to take as many of the monsters down as he could. 

The telltale frisson of magic alerted Smith to something behind him.  A short man wearing a ragged but recognizable robe of the Circle of Magi was behind them, his simple staff held down towards the invading ‘spawn. 

Smith sensed the flame before it struck the charging hurlocks.  He watched as if time had slowed as first flash of magic ignited flames around the darkspawn.  Three of the monsters dropped dead on the spot but the other two had only been badly burned.  They screamed like dying animals and they were barreling straight towards Smith. 

Smith shielded against the first swipe of the darkspawn’s crooked sword but he could not stand to keep his back to a rogue mage.  He changed his footing to put the darkspawn between himself and the mage but felt his boot connect with a tree root.  He stumbled against the tree but did not fall, as he saw an arrow pierce the eye of the second darkspawn. 

Before he could bring his shield to block the armored fist of the remaining hurlock came down hard against his skull.  He heard a scream above him, a sound that would haunt his dreams forever, and then there was only darkness. 


	4. Chapter 4

In the beginning, it is said, the Maker spoke the world into being.  Smith had heard once, from an old Chantry Mother, that instead of speaking the Maker had in fact sung the world into being.  The Mother, who was blind and aged, had always opened her services with a hymn.  Her voice was the voice of the Chant in Smith’s childhood memories, and he had taken an interest in music ever since. 

He felt, with a touch of pride, that he had a pleasing singing voice.  The Templar’s marching songs were no great works of music but he had taken comfort in them.  But in his dreams, in the Fade, he heard the hymns of the morning devotional.  Voices raised together in worship, given common purpose, till all the world was singing together in the light of the Maker. 

This must be a dream, he thought.  For he could hear the singing now as clear as he had as a child.  And it seemed to him that it was the voice of the Maker himself, a singular voice that contained everything.  He could hear love and hope in the voice.  An unshakeable faith tempered by fear and doubt.  He felt himself mouthing the words along with the voice until they spilled out of him.

“Shadows fall and hope has fled.  Steel your heart, the dawn will come.” He sang, off key and broken, slurring his words.  He heard a gasp above him and felt a sudden pressure on his chest.  He realized, suddenly, that this was no dream. 

“It has.”  He heard the voice say, choked with tears.  “It has.” 

And Smith knew nothing more as he slipped back into sleep. 

*

When he woke, he came to himself all at once.  His head ached terribly and his hands and feet were cramped and aching.  He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the roof of a roughhewed cabin.  The air was crisp and cold and Smith realized he was all but naked lying on a pallet of smelly hay.   The dawn was rising.

The Blight, he remembered.  The darkspawn. 

“ROSS!” He screamed.  His body ached and even the small movement to right himself on the pallet had caused his vision to blur.  He was in no shape to defend himself or his husband. 

“Smith,” He heard the voice of his husband call from outside.  He relaxed as his husband walked through the simple frame of the entrance to the cabin.  His skin was sallow and pale and his eyes were hooded and dark.  It looked like he hadn’t slept in days.  Ross knelt down onto the pallet beside him and gently held him.  Smith could feel tears drop into his untamed beard. 

“Ross,” Smith said again and he heard his husband choke back a sob.  He held Ross and rubbed circles into his back.  “Love, are you alright?” He tried.  Ross let go of his tight hold and got himself back under control.

“I’m fine, Smith.” Ross said, clearing his throat.  “It was you I was so worried about.”  Smith felt himself go lightheaded.  He had been fighting darkspawn and then a fist had come down hard onto his head. 

Well, that explained the splitting headache, Smith thought. 

“Takes more than a darkspawn fist to crack my hard head, love.” Smith said.  His husband was in a state and it would do no good to worry him more than he had to.  He saw his feeble joke bring a tiny smile to Ross’ face and he counted the Maker’s blessings once again. 

“It nearly did.”  Ross said somberly.  “If it weren’t for Trott I don’t think either one of us would have made it out alive.” 

Smith’s eyes widened.  There had been, he remembered now, a mage.  He tried all at once to heave himself into standing.  His felt his eyes cross and he fell heavily backwards.  Ross was there in an instant and helped lower him back down to the ground. 

“Smith, no.  He saved our lives.”  Ross said.  Ross knew his husband and knew how he would react.  It was no coincidence he had mentioned the mage so quickly.  And Smith knew it. 

“The Order dictates …” Smith growled.

“I know what the Order says, love.  But you were released from your duty, weren’t you?  The Knight-Commander released you to find safety.”  Ross said, holding the back of his hand to Smith’s forehead.

“That does not mean I am a Templar no longer.  What do you know of this mage?  He could be mad.  He could be a maleficar!”  Smith said, still woozy from his exertion.  “Love, you don’t have the experience with mages that I have.  A mage on the run is a danger to everyone.” 

“I know that he saved your life,” Ross said stubbornly.  “I know that he saved mine.  He healed you, Smith.  It’s the only reason you woke up.” 

Smith froze and felt heat flush up through his entire body.  The mage had used magic on him!  What if he had been corrupted?  He had heard tales of blood mages making their victims into slaves before killing them for power. 

“You _let_ him use magic on me?” Smith asked.  He could not believe what he was hearing.

“Yes.” Ross said.  And there was the stubborn line of his husband’s shoulders.  Ross took Smith’s hands in his own.  “You told me, before we left Lothering, that you had sworn an oath to me, to love me and protect me.  Sometimes, Smith, I don’t think you realize that I swore the same oath.” 

Smith closed his eyes.  He knew that he could not change his husband’s mind but he tried one last time nonetheless. 

“Magic exists to _serve_ man and …” Smith started.

“And never to rule over him.”  Said a new voice.  The mage, dressed in the same travel stained robes, interrupted him.  “Did you see a lot of ruling going on then?  When I was saving your lives, I mean.  That seemed distinctly like serving rather than ruling.”  The mage scrunched up his nose in distaste.  “Though I’d appreciate it if you kept that bit to yourselves – I have a reputation to maintain now.  A mage abroad, a man of mystery, spooky, scary.” 

Smith had tensed when he had heard the voice and the longer the mage rambled the tenser he got.  He seemed half mad.  Smith had heard that some mages could become addled like Templars did, from too much exposure to lyrium, but this did not seem to be the case.  For one, the mage was young and sturdy.  More compact and shorter than either Smith or his husband but Smith could see muscles underneath the ragged robes he wore.  And odd thing to find in a mage and not reassuring at all. 

“Smith,” Ross said, looking over at him.  “This is Trott, the mage who saved us.”

Smith made a show of looking the man over.  “You are an apostate.” Smith said with as much conviction as he could muster lying half naked on a pallet of hay.  “A runaway, if I’m not mistaken.”  The mage shared a smug smile and tapped his bearded face once or twice.

“Well, it looks like you have a clever one on your hands,” Trott said to Ross.  “He’s smart for a Templar.”  Smith bristled at the accusation but Ross put his hand up between the both of them.

“It doesn’t matter what he is or isn’t, Smith.  We’re all fleeing the darkspawn.  We can hate each other when we make it to Gwaren.”  Ross said. 

“Gwaren?” Smith asked, confused.  “We were making East towards Denerim.”  Ross nodded. 

“The road has been overrun with darkspawn.  We had to cut southeast after the battle with the darkspawn.  We’re on the outskirts of the Brecilian forest.”  Ross explained.

“We went south?”  Smith asked incredulously.  “That takes us closer to the horde!”  Smith yelled, turning his head to face the rogue mage.  “You may as well have driven us into the Archdemon’s maw!”  The mage grasped his staff tightly and Smith readied his mind for whatever magical nullification he could produce in such a state. 

“For the record, the eastern road out of Lothering is full of darkspawn now.  I was probably a half day’s journey ahead of you on that road.  A huge vanguard of the horde was already in front of you.  And your _husband’s_ the one who suggested snaking southeast into this blasted forest.”  Trott hissed the words between his teeth.

Smith turned to stare at his husband.  He must have had some reason to drive them into a forest as cursed as the Brecilian.  Ross caught his eye and began to explain. 

“Two things:  one, not even a darkspawn army can march swiftly through a thick forest, and two:  the last rumors I heard in Lothering was that a Dalish clan had set up in the interior of the forest.  They’re our best hope for a path out of the forest and to Gwaren, where we can take ship to escape the Blight.”  Ross said. 

Smith swallowed and thought of what his husband had said.  There was merit to the suggestion.  It was true that a forest would make the horde travel more slowly and give them more time to flee.  But the Brecilian forest was infamous as a dangerous place.  Full of lingering spirits and ruins of all kinds.  And that was before one added mad elves into the mix. 

Smith had little interest of elves of any sort and even less in Dalish clans.  As far as he knew, they kept themselves to themselves.  He knew they sometimes thwarted the Order’s work in finding rogue mages but Smith had never been tasked to retrieve an apostate from one of their roaming caravans.  Ross, though, had had by his own admission an impassioned affair with a hunter from a Dalish clan when he was a younger man. 

The story had by turns amused and aroused Smith, for Ross had described a fortnight of debauched pleasure before the hunter was expected back by his clan.  The elf had taught Ross a little bit of their lore and language, or as much as a Dalish might teach a beautiful human at any rate.  It had, to Smith’s growing annoyance, given Ross the mistaken apprehension that he was an expert on their ways.  Smith believed this must be part of Ross’ mad obsession with them. 

The mage had watched them both with a carefully neutral expression on his face.  But Smith had become accustomed to mages trying to hide away their true feelings from him.  He could tell that Trott had likely had his own argument with Ross before Smith had awoke.  It gave him little hope that he would be able to change his husband’s mind, if gratitude towards their supposed savior could not. 

“If we find one of their hunting parties, we should be able to send our request to their Keeper.  They’ll want us off their land as soon as possible anyway.  And they’ll appreciate knowing about the Blight if they didn’t know already.”  Ross seemed almost optimistic, despite looking like a corpse. 

“Well then,” Trott said suddenly into the small cabin.  “All we have to do is make our way through an infamous forest, flee the darkspawn riding our asses, and broker a peace with isolationist elves.  What a wonderful plan!”  The mage’s words were light and airy but his eyes held a caustic glare in them. 

“It’s the only plan we’ve got.” Smith said, defending his husband.  “And it’s not as if I would trust any plan a maleficar would make.”  Trott’s eyes flashed.

“I am not a sodding blood mage!”  Trott said.  He took in a breath and calmed himself.  “Fine.  We’ll do it your husband’s way.” 

“Good,” Ross said.  He settled his hands back on Smith’s brow and then slowly pulled him into a sitting position.  “Do you think you could stand?”  Ross asked gently. 

Smith closed his eyes and tried to take inventory, to make himself distant from the pain as he had been taught.  His head was the worst of it but his limbs too felt weak and useless.  The sooner he became more active the sooner he could strengthen himself.  “Yes,” He said to Ross and took his hand.  They slowly made their way upright and Smith tested his legs.  He could stand, though he was a little unstable.

He heard the mage have a coughing fit and realized with a start that he was in his smallclothes.  He felt heat rise in his face as the mage made a show of looking away as Ross helped him dress. 

“We managed to call the horses back after everything quieted down.”  Ross told him.  “You can ride behind me.  There’s still plenty of daylight left.  We should make good time.”  Ever the woodsman, his husband sounded totally confident. 

“Till day’s end.”  Smith said. 

And the three rode out into the shadowed forest.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun was low on the horizon by the time the three stopped to rest.  The forest canopy was so thick that they had barely seen the sun as they rode.  It was not until it slipped downward towards the horizon that they understood that they had been riding all day.  The forest was stuffy and humid but somehow still cold.  The canopies of the trees filtered what little sunlight was left and the shadows the group cast were long and crooked. 

“The horses need rest,” Ross called out as he and Smith began to dismount.  Their mare was slick with sweat and a steady vapor rose from its flank.  The horses could not handle carrying both Smith and Ross for long, even with short rests throughout the day.  Smith realized, sourly, that he would have to switch off with the gelding Trott rode tomorrow.  He did not look forward to being put into close proximity with a mage.  In other circumstances he might ask Ross to switch horses with the mage but Ross was too attached to the beast he had raised from a foal. 

“Right,” Smith said tightly as he dismounted and took stock of the surrounding area.  His voice echoed oddly, bouncing between the boughs of the trees.  He mistrusted the whole place but he knew his husband had chosen a defensible position.  Or as defensible as one might have in a forest.  They watered and fed the horses as best they could and then set out their things in a neat pile to take inventory.  They had little food left from Lothering.  They would have to hunt soon. 

Ross soon built a sturdy campfire.  He searched in his satchel for his flint but the mage, with an arrogance Smith found grating, waved his hand at the campfire and flames burst forth as if the fire had been roaring for hours. 

“Thanks,” Ross said.  “I don’t know where I put my flint anyway.”

“No problem,” Trott said to Ross.  But he was watching Smith.  He had been testing him, Smith knew.  To see if he would flinch at the sight of magic.  Smith felt his teeth grind together in unspoken frustration.  The mage saw that too, and smirked a little at it.  “Do you have any idea where these elves of yours might be?” Trott asked, turning fully to Ross. 

“Not exactly,” Ross said.  “They’ll be deep in the interior somewhere, away from human civilization.  Not too far from the river, though, which is where we’re headed.  Either we run into them first or we find the river and follow it most of the way to Gwaren.”  Trott nodded.  Now that they were in the forest the plan seemed both more reasonable and more dangerous.  They had escaped a horde of darkspawn but that was no guarantee this blasted forest would not destroy them. 

“Why would these elves even want to camp in this pokey forest?  It’s creepy.”  Trott asked.  He shivered a little and moved closer to the fire.  The ragged Circle robe he wore could not provide much warmth. 

“It was part of the old Elven empire apparently,” Ross said as he stoked the fire.  “And it was the site of a massive battle against the Tevinters in the dying days of that empire.”  Smith frowned.  He did not like the idea of being surrounded by the bones of numberless ancient elves. 

“Great,” Trott said, echoing Smith’s thoughts.  “It’s a massive graveyard to boot.  That’s not weird or spooky or anything.” 

“There are ruins further in,” Ross said.  “But I’ve heard from trappers that they’re haunted.  Even the Dalish seem to fear it, or so I was told.”  The unspoken presence of Ross’ Dalish lover hung between them in the stuffy air. 

“If we manage to orient ourselves, we’ll be able to avoid the ruins, I’m sure.”  Smith said, trying to calm the rogue mage.  It would not do to have him seek demonic aid from his fears.  If Trott suspected any ulterior motives to his persuasion then he declined to acknowledge it.  For now, he simply nodded his head and set about unfurling his bedroll. 

Ross took Smith’s hand and tugged him down to sit on a fallen log away from the campfire.  He started to unclasp Smith’s armor and Smith sighed.  He would let Ross work through his mother hen impulses.  In truth, he did not mind the attention so much.  The constant mention of Ross’ past affair had, to his shame, discomfited him.  It was not worthy of the man he loved, nor the vows he swore, but he found himself helpless to stop the pangs of jealousy when Ross mentioned the tryst.  He would not begrudge Ross this moment of intimacy. 

“I want to change your bandages,” Ross said.  “I even had the old ones washed in boiling water.” The fact that the heat had come from magefire did not bother Smith as much as he would have thought.  Better to have clean bandages, he thought. 

Ross set to work cleaning his wounds and changing his bandages and Smith lost himself in the gentle touch of his husband’s hands.  Ross could use those hands to fell any beast he trained his bow on but Smith had found in them a gentleness he envied.  They both had the calloused hands of men who have worked a lifetime of physical labor, Smith with his sword and other Templar duties, Ross with his life of trapping and hunting.  But Ross’ hands held a talent for delicate work that Smith’s could not match. 

When Ross was done changing his bandages, Smith took his hand in his own and held it up to his lips to kiss.  He put Ross’ palm on his own cheek, a cool leaf against his heat.  He closed his eyes as Ross rubbed gentle circles into his cheek with his thumb. 

“I was so scared,” Ross said quietly.  “When that darkspawn hit you and you fell.  I screamed.” There were no tears in his voice now, only a sorrow that Smith did not know how to end. 

“I know,” Smith said, his voice hoarse.  “I remember hearing it.”  His memory of the battle was fuzzy.  But he remembered the scream; every single part of him remembered the sound of it ripping through him. 

“I know you don’t trust the mage,” Ross said.  He had laid his other hand on the other side of Smith’s head, cupping his face.  “But Smith, he saved you.  That darkspawn had his sword stabbing down right towards your neck.”  Ross kissed him on the forehead, the nose, and then finally the lips, the sweetness Smith had been chasing ever since they had sat together on the fallen log.  “I know you’re just pretending to be ok with our arrangement, but please Smith, I would have lost you if not for him.  For me, for me, please, spare him.  I owe him that.” 

Smith found his teeth grinding together again.  In reply, all he could do was kiss Ross.  He hoped he managed to convey his feelings to him, the complicated tension he felt now, caught between his two duties.  He could not allow a mage to flee the Circle but neither could he dismiss his husband’s pleas.  For his own life, Smith held little value.  It did not sway him at all to be saved by a mage.  But Ross’ own survival, his own vow to Smith, all tangled together into an unknowable mess.  Where did his duty lie?  With his husband?  With the Order? 

He kissed Ross again and they collected their things and made their way back to the campfire. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Smith said.  Trott nodded and immediately fell to his bedroll.  Ross took his time unrolling and sewing together their bedrolls.  Eventually, with an encouraging nod from Smith, he fell asleep. 

Eventually, the moon swooped high overhead and Smith found himself fighting sleep.  Before he went to wake Ross for the next watch, he realized there was an unnatural stillness in the air.  Around him there was nothing but dead silence.  Silence, in a forest filled to the brim with all manner of noisy insect.  He tensed and strained his hearing as far it would go.  Nothing.  He decided to wait another hour, perhaps, before he waked Ross. 

*

When midnight came, the werewolves attacked. 


End file.
